Benders
by neighbourhoods
Summary: "...And that boy that you spit on as he tries to change his world is immune to your consultations. He's quite aware of what he's going through..." A deep look into the character of John Bender.


**Disclaimer; The main character in this story does not belong to me but to the late and amazing John Hughes. Also, I altered the quote to fit in with this story. It belongs to David Bowie.**

**Okay, enjoy! c;**

_**smirkinq 2014 © all rights reserved [storyline is a work of mine.]**_

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**0|preface**

**_"... And that boy that you spit on as he tries to change his world is immune to your consultations. He's quite aware of what he's going through..."_**

"Ha! Now wouldn't that be a bite, mom _(?)_ Ooh, spending time with a man that treats you like dirt." John Bender retorted with heavy sarcasm at his now irritated mom as he came back from a lengthy day at school. And trust me; he was a lot more than just than just tired.

As he sat on the torn sofa, which he often found himself sinking in, his mom burst through the living room and by the way she was standing with her small arms folded across her chest, she wasn't very impressed. In fact by the anger etched deeply in her face, she was furious.

John carried on staring through the television set, putting it on in the process. He then relaxed into the damaged sofa, waiting for his mother's long string of insults.

"You ungrateful, little brat! You're even lucky to have a father to even take care of your ass." She shouted at him and John only shot her a cold look, wondering how far she would have to stoop in order to completely demoralize her own son.

John knew she could. His dad after all was the man of the house. He does whatever he wants.

_Whatever he wants._

His mom only smacked him hard against the back of his head, and then went back into the kitchen. After a short moment of silence, she heard wheezing and figured his mom was now taking in her asthma pump. She muttered curses under her breath like he couldn't hear them. These walls were paper thin and couldn't hold a mouse's quiet squeaks within the walls.

John hated this place with all his heart. But he had to ponder. How could he be lucky? In what way? Well, he wasn't going to sit there and be all freaking philosophical about his life now. Instead he was going to spend that time smoking.

The light flickers brightly against his face, his deep set dark brown eyes that were sometimes hazel were highlighted as he grabbed a cigarette he hid in his boots, then got pulled out a matchstick and struck it against the sole of his boots, giving everything nearby in the room a golden glaze.

He puts the alight matchstick against the tip of his cigarette until he hears the half broken door rattle which followed with a demanding **slam**.

For nothing in particular, this made John stood up quickly, like it would be considered a downright sin to be sitting down in his own living room. Not like he was religious or anything.

He heard him walk straight into the kitchen which was followed by smooching. Then him saying, "I smell smoke, Jennifer."

John, like a boy possessed, he runs over to a window, opens it then throws his cigarette away before closing it. A part of him went away with that damn cigarette.

His food was thrown away. His only meal, by the looks of it. He felt the hunger, raging in his stomach.

He hated how his father struck fear in him. His hate for his father was something so strong, it could nearly destroy him.

His father's presence was made known as soon as he entered. It could fill the dingy room. It was like everything that now was living in the place was dying because of his dark and dangerous aura.

His own dark eyes were now filled with fire burning rage as a glimpse of light shone on them. It was evident it was something that manifested in him from deep inside. He could see that throbbing vein on his thick neck as he edged towards John who with all his might stayed still, watching his father's footing. John then looked up at his red faced father, a cold look graced it's appearance on his face.

All of sudden, like a bolt out of the blue, he grabbed his son by the collar of his shirt, his feet barely touching the ground.

"_**You stupid, worthless, no good, goddamn, freeloading son of a bitch! Who said you could fucking smoke in this house?!**_" he yelled, his face so close to John's that he could feel hot spitle touch his face.

His breath smelt like whisky.

John said nothing, except hang there, his face nearly expressionless. He wasn't about to get a rise out of him, that easily.

He gritted his teeth. "**_Answer me, Johnny boy!_**" his voice was hard and loud; the ceiling crumbled a little as he did.

"You think you're clever, huh? Doing that shit in _**my**_house?!" he practically pushed John against a wall. He closed his eyes as he felt the sharp pain hit his spine. "You don't even **_know_** what you've got yourself into, you little dick!"

John slid back up above the wall, not risking to say a single smart-ass comment. His father grabbed him tighter, pushing him harder against the crumbling wall.

His patience was wearing thinner than the wall he was pushing him against.

"Give up." he croaked, causing his father to glare daggers into him.

"What was that, Johnny?" his voice grave and meanacing, his light Italian-American accent coming though his words.

John breathed, then repeated himself. "You're an old man. You might just keel over me any minute. Give it up."

This caused the vein to pump out of his neck, his teeth grinding against each other so hard, he could just hear them.

With anger and adrenaline rushing through his veins at what his father said, he gave him an almighty punch against his jaw, fast and strong, causing John to groan out loud. He then let go of his son as he went crashing to the floor, holding his jaw. He tasted blood.

"_**You**_ _**retarded, big mouth, know-it-all, asshole,jerk!**_" he yelled over him and kicked him for extra measure.

"You forgot **_ugly, lazy and downright disrespectful._**" He heard her mother close in the living room, not knowing she was there. Because he had shut his eyes, to handle the pain his father had just inflicted on him.

He was so furious, all he could do was scream, which didn't help anything at all, because his mother wasn't going help him anytime soon. How could his own mother do that? To think he could depend on someone like that, made him feel all the things that they were calling him.

"Shut up, _**bitch!**_ Go fix me a turkey pot pie." His father said to his mother and he rolled his eyes.

"No dad," John started, as he sat up straighter, looked braver. "What about you?"

His father only glared at him, that same fire appeared stronger in his dark eyes.

"Fuck you, Johnny." he replied coldly as he cracked his fingers.

John smirked.

"No dad, what about you?" this time he asked it in a slow, tone, producing every word. That was bound to wind him up. He saw his mother next to him, slowly shaking her head, secretly telling him to stop.

"Fuck. You."

John was now solemn, as he looked right at his father's heated stare.

"Dad, I said, **_what about you?!_**"

_"__**Fuck you!**__" _he nearly screamed, at him and with that, punch after punch flew right John, each one hard and fast, hitting his most sensitive places. He curled himself into a ball slightly.

"_I'll...make...your...fucking...waste...of...an...life...a misery...Johnny boy_." he exaggerated with each last set of blows to his son, using him as a cushion, a stress reliever. John groaned in pain each part of him burn in agony.

"And I will make that my **_personal_** responsibility." he snarled as he finished with a final, _nice, great_ big kick in his stomach. The air flew right out of him , leaving him wheezing and catching his breath.

"What are you waiting for, bitch?**_ I want a turkey hot pie, goddamn it!_**" he yelled and John could hear his mother's heels flee the living room.


End file.
